now / then

I was the foreman of a jury in a murder trial and, unexpectedly, got to know both the principal prosecuting and defense lawyers.

The defense counsel, Chadda, was a tall, angular man with wavy, dark hair and bushy eyebrows. Generally he had a hectoring style and a pugnacious demeanor. He left you in no doubt which side he was on and what he was prepared to do for that side.​So, when I got to know him better after the trial had ended, I was surprised to find that in private he was a very different person. He was suave and considerate, eager to hear your view, patient to a fault. Clearly his courtroom style was one he affected because he thought it gave him a professional edge.

He told me he had worked as a government prosecutor for several years and sent dozens of people to prison for long terms, satisfied that he was putting criminals in their deserved place. Over the years, however, he started having doubts. Defendants, he could see, were having a poor deal. Poor people were represented mostly by low-status lawyers eager to make a deal rather than go to trial; that saved their time but always meant a longer time for their clients behind the bars. If the case went to trial, the government lawyers invariably had better resources for investigating facts and gathering evidence, and the defendants would have the cards stacked against them. Chadda no longer felt he was helping dispense justice. He left his job and went to work as an independent lawyer, defending clients in criminal cases.

“I no longer had a salary. Nor did I have a well-guarded, well-appointed office, a secretary and an assistant, and a bunch of professional staff I could count on for help. But I was free of all political or official pressure, free to practice law as I wanted.”​He added, “I was free, above all, to choose the cases I took, delve into them as much as I cared, handle them exactly the way I thought best. I decided to choose my cases carefully: cases where I could make a mark or where I would be able to make a noticeable difference. Yes, I wanted to be noticed.”​He explained his aggressive style, “Prosecutors in general were a proud lot for a good reason. Their adversaries were often poorly paid, insufficiently prepared lawyers ready to strike a deal and avoid a trial. I wanted a trial, where I could punch a hole in their hubris. I accepted a few briefs, investigated personally, prepared rigorously and went to court like a gladiator.”

In three years Chadda had established a reputation as a persistent, painstaking practitioner who could be trusted to put up the best fight for his clients. He started getting important cases, cases that drew attention to his performance. In the fourth year, he got what his heart craved for, a murder case where the prosecution was asking for capital punishment.

It was a brutal case in an nearby village. An affluent farmer had been killed with a machete, his head nearly severed with a formidable strike. There was no eyewitness, but since the man had a land dispute with a neighboring farmer for years and their dispute had burst into ugly brawls in public more than once, the other farmer, Jit, was a prime suspect and promptly interrogated. The police gathered a large body of circumstantial evidence and charged Jit. The local lawyer who had initially advised Jit knew that he would be beyond his depth in a capital case. So he bowed out and the brief came to Chadda.

“I studied the voluminous file punctiliously, examined and reexamined every shred of evidence, then went to the village and visited the scene of crime. I memorized every name, checked every photograph with a microscope, and studied all the police and medical reports.”

“Didn’t you speak with the alleged killer, Jit himself?” I asked.​“At that stage, no. I make it a principle never to ask the client if he or she has committed the crime. Often clients lie and say they are innocent. In any case, their guilt or innocence is none of my business. It is for the judge to decide that. As their lawyer, my responsibility is to present the best defense, the most credible and advantageous interpretation of the evidence on their behalf. I spoke to him for a few minutes just before the trial only to reassure him and to advise him not to open his mouth.”

The trial lasted four days, the first two days mostly a procession of witnesses to establish the chain of evidence.

“It wasn’t done badly, but, as always, there were loose links. I was armed to the teeth and I exploited every lapse. I questioned the official witnesses mercilessly. Then the prosecutor presented his arguments, competently but perfunctorily. Finally, at the end of the third day. it was my turn.

“I had prepared well, and I delivered my points with all the eloquence I could muster. I emphasized that there were undeniable gaps in the evidence and none could send an innocent man to his death on that basis. The jurors were clearly spellbound. Even the judge looked impressed.​“As the court adjourned for the day, I was certain that I had scored a victory. Then the strange thing happened.

Chadda took a sip of his drink and said, “Jit, my client, had expressed a need to consult me and the guards brought us together in a small room next to the judge’s chamber. The man thanked me profusely for my effort.

​I was about to leave, when he suddenly blurted out, ‘I am genuinely sorry I killed that man in a rage. Please save me.’”

Chadda continued, “I came out of the court in a daze. Unknown to me, working hard to find holes in the evidence, I had convinced myself of the innocence of my client. Now I knew he wasn’t innocent. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept running in my mind the picture of the blood-soaked victim. And the thought of the killer I had helped to set free.”​The next morning, Chadda said, he was the happiest man on earth when the judge took the jurors’ verdict and declared that defendant had been found guilty. Following the jury’s recommendation, however, instead of sending him to the death row, he gave the man a life sentence. Chadda had lost the case, but he had learned a lesson.